


Dead End

by dreamslikeaheartbeat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Factory worker, NSFW, Nomad Steve Rogers, Rape, SmallTown, Smut, nomad!Steve Rogers - Freeform, noncon, possibly triggering content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29758800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamslikeaheartbeat/pseuds/dreamslikeaheartbeat
Summary: There’s a new face in your small town.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

Before you read: This is a dark fic and will contain nonconsent and rape, drinking, hoarding, as well as other triggering element. Tags will be updated for each chapter. Please don’t read if any of these trigger you. For those of you interested, enjoy.

Author’s note: i am still working on my other series, i promise, i was sitting on this first chapter for a while so decided to post it and see if anyone was interested in a full series. please leave some words, it really helps knowing people enjoy this so please leave some feedback.

* * *

You sit at the bench and breathe a cloud into the cold air. The nip of the late fall chills the sweat beneath your coveralls. The picnic table sits on a mat of pavement in the little chain link enclave, the machinery pumping behind the brick walls. You lay your gloves beside your leg and examine a streak of grime on your pant leg.

You push up your safety glasses and yawn. The twelve-hour stretches on and you take your brief sixteen to get a breath of air, even if it is cold enough to make your lungs hurt. You rub your cheeks and lean forward to hang your head.

It isn’t bad work, just hard work. The union job pays well enough and in the small town, it’s a sole employer for at least one occupant of every household. You can’t complain or want for much but the time spent in the dark factory makes your lonely life a grim one.

You barely talk to your coworkers, mostly men who have no filter as they work the line, and in your free time, you don’t go out much. There isn’t much to do around town and you never really made friends as the schoolyard politics kept the lines drawn between you and your peers. 

It’s easy to be forgotten, the quiet girl, and at the factory you’re just another hand on the packaging line. You sit up and rest your elbows behind you on the table, three minutes left before you head back in.

But you’re not just met with the dimming sky. A man stands at the corner of the building, a few feet from the little yard. He’s unfamiliar and that’s strange in a town like this. 

He pulls off his cap, his shaggy blonde hair sweaty and pushed back from his brow. He wipes his forehead and his fingers dawdle down to his thick beard and scratch. He’s tall and his broad shoulders stretch the fabric of the coveralls. He’s a sore thumb in this ordinary town.

He hesitates then turns. You’re startled to see him approaching you and he stops just at the doorway of the fence. His plastic glasses are hooked at the top of his coveralls and his gloves stick out from his pocket. He eyes you warily.

“You mind?” he asks as he points to the far bench, “been on my feet for a while but I don’t wanna crowd you.”

“Go ahead, I’m almost done,” you say quietly.

Usually you bring your novel out to read but today you forgot. Today you just didn’t want to think so you shrug away the questions about this stranger. He goes around the other side and sits. The table moves with his weight and he sighs.

You’re quiet as you stare across the street at the vacant lot. The grey sky adds to the desolate tones of the town. You’re content in silence, a habit you picked up long ago, a relief after the noise of the machines barely muffled by your ear plugs.

“You work here long?” the man asks as his gristly voice cuts through the crisp air.

You flinch and look over your shoulder but don’t meet his eye, “couple years.”

He gives a hmm and you turn back, folding the fingers of your gloves and letting them fall limp once more. You check the time and stand up. You slide your glasses back down and squeeze your gloves. You head for the doorway and prepare yourself for your last four hours.

“Headin’ back?” he asks as if it isn’t obvious.

You pause and nod, a pathetic yeah in response.

He says nothing else as you go. You feel awkward and cringe as you swipe your card at the door. He was new in town, you guess that, and likely only trying to make friends. You weren’t very good at that and he’d fit in better with the crass men who filled the workforce. Besides the last time you let yourself speak with one of your coworkers result in several unwelcomed gropes and a series of threats when you reported him to HR.

You learned your lesson, always the same one, people weren’t worth your time or energy, they would only use it for their own means.

After your twelve hour, you walk home on your usual route, the baggy coat with your work’s emblem kept you warm as the dark lowered the temp. It’s a ten minute walk and when you get in, the smell of cigarettes and stale paper meets your nose. There’s a new stack of yellowed magazine on the table by the door. You sigh as the dates read back to 1962.

“Grandma,” you call to the living room as you hear the tv blaring, “you still awake?”

You grab the pile and grunt as you carry it into the front room as your grandmother rocks on her recliner and watches the late night rerun of Wheel of Fortune.

“How was work, dolly?” she adds her usual pet name as she lights a smoke.

“We talked about this,” you nod to the magazines, “no more, there’s no room for it.”

“It’s just a little,” she rasps and takes a long drag, “what’s it gonna hurt?”

“You gonna read these ones?” you ask, “or just leave them molding in the hallway like the rest?”

“Now don’t–”

“Grandma, you need to see Linda again,” you hiss.

“I don’t like her,” she croaks.

“No, you don’t like changing, you get three and the rest I’m tossing where they belong.” you huff and come close to her.

“No, you can’t–”

“Or I can burn them all,” you threaten, “please–”

“They’re mine–”

“I just worked twelve hours and you’re arguing with me about out of date ads, please, just–”

“This is my house, dolly,” she says.

“And I pay the mortgage,” you spit, “how much of your pension went to bingo this week, huh? And those smokes? Those aren’t cheap.”

“I been around a while, I earned–”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t enjoy your retirement but,” you take a breath, “I don’t exactly wanna spend my life here.”

“Give me those,” she stands and snatches the stacks from you, “you know, you can be so ungrateful.”

“I’m only looking out for you,” you watch her take the magazines and shuffle through them, “so, you’re keeping them?”

“Pry ‘em from my cold dead hands,” she yaps.

I might have to, you think as you back away. With all the shit she has around the house, one misplaced cigarette could light it up like a tinderbox. You sigh again and run your hands over your face in defeat.

“You don’t like my rules, you go out and get your own place, dolly,” she keeps on.

You shake your head. She does this when you argue, she tries to act like you need her more than she does you. Like she would be able to pay for the house on her social security.

“Fine, just–”

“I raised you up and this is how you talk to me?” she whines.

“I’m tired, don’t do this, not tonight,” you beg.

She ignores you and continues to rant. You look down at the grey jacket and fix your brimmed cap. If you stay, she’s not going to stop, you know that. Usually, you just go up to your room and lock her out but tonight, you were actually mad. You frown and flick your fingers at her.

“I’m not doing this,” you turn and storm back to the door.

“Where are you going?” she calls after you.

“Wherever I want,” you slam the door behind you and stumble down the porch steps.

As you get to the sidewalk, you stop. You don’t know where to go. You turn down towards main street and wander until you see the only sign still lit up. Ricky’s is popular with the factory workers but you never went. You aren’t a drinker and you aren’t very social, but you need to sit down and you heard alcohol could help you forget.

You enter with your head down. It’s mostly empty on a Tuesday night. You get to the bar but you don’t know what to order. You tried a sip of vodka once in high school when you thought you might fall in with the in-crowd but that didn’t turn out.

“What can I get ya?” the bartender, Donny, asks.

“Well, I…” you try to remember every bar scene you ever saw on tv, “what’s on tap?”

“Bud and Heineken,” Donny says.

You tap your fingers on the zipper of your jacket, “is there a difference?”

“Go with Heineken,” a voice, vaguely familiar, calls from the stool by the corner of the bar, “tastes better.”

You look over at the same bearded man from your break. You blink back at Donny and mutter, “Heineken, please.”

“You wanna open a tab?” he asks as he turns to take a glass.

“Just one for now,” you dig out your wallet and put a ten on the bar.

He pours the beer and plops it in front of you then grabs the money. You leave half the change as a tip and carefully take the tall glass. You probably won’t finish it all.

“You wanna join me?” the same man calls from down the bar, “promise I don’t bite.”

“Uh,” you eye him and then look at the foam of your glass.

“I’ll settle for just a name then leave you to it,” he says, “but drinking alone isn’t fun.”

You look around, the few other patrons in the bar are sitting in groups and slurring loudly. Lorna, who you went to school with, is in one of their laps giggling and one man by the pool table leers at you, even in your dirty uniform.

You turn and approach him cautiously. You set your drink down and climb up on the high stool. You unzip your jacket as you begin to sweat and take off your cap and put it beside your glass. His elbow rests next to yours as you lean on the edge. You tell him your name and dare to taste the wheaty beer. You wrinkle your nose and put it back down heavily.

“Steve,” he gives his own and takes a gulp of his darker beer, “I always heard small towns were friendly but you’re the first person who hasn’t spat on my shoes.”

You look at him and arch a brow, “not this town,” you mumble.

He nods and grips his glass as he thinks, “so, what are you drinking away?” You shrug but don’t answer, you might know his name but you don’t know him, “something must’ve brought you down here, just like everyone else.”

“What about you?” you ask quietly, “you’re here.”

He laughs and takes another drink. You mirror him and it still tastes gross but you swallow a good mouthful.

“Nothing else to do,” he says, “work so long I don’t know what to do with myself.”

You’re quiet again. Conversation never comes easy but you know what to expect of the small town folk, you don’t know what to think of this man. You regret sitting beside him as your worst fears start to bubble. You take another drink to fill the silence.

“Not much of a talker, huh,” he comments.

You shrug again and you desperately wanna go. Your grandma was probably worried and she would calm down by the time you got back. You take another gulp and nearly choke.

“Slow down,” he warns.

You ignore him and keep drinking until the glass is empty and streaked with foamy residue. You stifle a cough behind your sleeve. You shake your head as you feel an odd waviness in your head and the lights form halos in your vision. You turn and slide off the stool, holding it as you grab your cap and pop it on.

“Thanks,” you say as your tongue moves slowly, “think that’s it–” you hiccup, “for the night.”

You try to step past the stool and wobble. He’s quick to stand and catch you, “wow, hey, lightweight, slow down.”

You try to pull away from him but he holds onto your arm tightly. You don’t fight too much as you fear you might fall over if you do.

“I’m fine,” you insist.

“Really?” he lets you go and you sway.

“Yes,” you murmur and turn away. You teeter to the door and stagger outside. The door opens again as you head down the sidewalk.

You step off the curb and fall to your knee as your ankle bends beneath you. You swear under your breath as you’re lifted back to your feet. You can barely put weight on your left foot.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” Steve asks as he wraps his arm around you and ushers you across the street.

You’re quiet and embarrassed. He stops at the other side and looks both ways. 

“You gotta point me in the right direction,” he says.

You lean on him heavily and whimper as you tweak your ankle again. He tuts and suddenly scoops you up into his arms. You cry out and cling to his shoulder as you fear he might drop you.

“Which way?” he asks again.

You point blindly in the direction of your grandma’s house, “121 Beechbank,” you grumble as you drop your head against his shoulder.

He heads down the street and turns down, searching for the signs as you close your eyes. Your limbs are heavy and your eyelids too. You feel yourself dozing off to the beating in his chest, loud even through the layers of his uniform.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?” he asks but you don’t respond as your soft snores chase away your consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Before you read: This is a dark fic and will contain nonconsent and rape, drinking, hoarding, bullying, as well as other triggering element. Tags will be updated for each chapter. Please don’t read if any of these trigger you. For those of you interested, enjoy.

Pairing: Nomad!Steve Rogers x Reader

Synopsis: You can’t seem to shake Steve.

Author’s note: i am trying to keep up and i’m working on all my series at once so i apologize for inconsistencies, but i’m having some anxiety issues too so i will do my best to keep up. please leave some words, it really helps knowing people enjoy this so please leave some feedback.

* * *

You wake up on the couch. The springs jab you and you smell cigarette smoke before you open your eyes. Your grandmother is sitting in her recliner, smoking and drinking her morning coffee in front of the morning news. You sit up and grumble as you rub your eyes.

The night is blurry. Streaks of anger and anxiety come back to you and then the man at the bar. His name is Steve, you remember that and the taste of beer.

“Rise and shine,” your grandma puffs.

You echo her but the words are garbled and gritty. She chuckles and shakes her head. She flicks ashes into the tray and takes another drink.

“You have fun last night?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” your tongue is dry and bitter.

“That man,” she grins.

“What?” you touch your forehead and lean back on the lumpy couch.

“You’re lucky, if it were ole Robbie Coswald, he woulda left you in an alley somewhere,” she spits.

You groan and cover your face. “You let him in here?”

“Just to put you down,” she says, “I almost made him drop you on the front porch.”

“Mmm,” you stand stiffly and stretch, “what time is it?”

“Barely eight,” she answers and takes one last long drag before stubbing out the butt.

“I’m calling Linda and you’re going to see her,” you say firmly, “no more magazines.”

“What were you doing with that man, anyway?” she changes the subject.

“Nothing,” you turn and hurry to the stairs, your uniform smells of sweat from your overtime shift and a night’s sleep, “he’s nosy, is all.”

“And a stranger, I never seen him around,” she scoffs.

“Don’t expect to see him again,” you say as you leave her on the first floor.

The dull pain in your ankle is more obvious as you work. You stand at the packer and try to keep the weight off as best you can. You find it hard to keep your mind on the monotone machinery as you think of your grandma and the magazine, even more distracted as you thought of Steve and the bar. 

You feel stupid for going down to the bar, for the beer that made you so bleary. Horrified that the man saw your grandmother’s chaos and paranoid of the judgement that came with that.

A loud grind wakes you from your regrets and you move to hit the emergency stop. There’s a carton trapped in the belt, a common problem in the outdated machine. Since you were hired, the company promised it would be replaced… **one day.**

You radio up to the office for a mechanic and back away from the machine. The mechanics are never happy to do their jobs even if they were paid well. You sign up for training each time it comes around but never get a bite. You’d rather make the rounds then be stuck on the floor in the same spot every day.

The radio crackles as the mechanic verifies your sector and you confirm. A few moments for you to just not think but that’s not at easy as it should be. Harder when the man you were avoiding thinking about appears just across from you in the tight space.

“Hey,” he seems as surprised as you, “so what’s going on?”

“Just a jam,” you point to the issue, “happens almost every shift.”

“I see,” he says as he goes to the machine and checks the brake and feels for a rumble, always safer to make sure it’s completely off, “easy fix but not a permanent one. The belt is off-kilter, they need to replace the whole thing--”

“What they’ve been saying forever,” you mumble and stand back behind him as he sets down his beg and kneels to dig out his tools. 

He looks up at you, his blue eyes bold even through the safety glasses, “how’s the ankle?”

You hang your head and shrug, “fine, nothing serious.”

He gives a dull hum and stands up. You dare to look up as you hear him working and watch his broad shoulders. The tails of his dark blond hair stick out of his cap and you never really noticed before how big he really was. In the tight space, with maybe a foot between you, he seems a mammoth.

“Your grandmother was worried,” he says as he turns and switches a tool for another, “but she barely let me in. Nice lady.”

You blink at his sarcasm. Your grandma can be sweet but she was never kind to strangers, especially men.

“She’s… she likes being alone,” you say weakly and twiddle your fingers in your large gloves.

“She’s a collector,” he says over his shoulder as he continues to finagle, “antiques and--”

“Garbage,” you say bluntly, “look I know what you think, same as the kids in school did. She needs help… she’s getting it.”

“I didn’t think that at all,” he replies as turns with the shredded carton and bends to pack up his bag, “sometimes it’s easier to hold onto things when you can’t hold onto people. It’s good she has you.”

“What do you know about it?” you regret your sour response but he’s barely bothered.

He hits the start and the line picks up, he watches it to make sure it doesn’t stop again, then side steps closer to you. He leans in and you smell his sweat mixed with a woodsy cologne, “I don’t really know much but it doesn’t mean I can’t learn.”

He gives you a smile but you avoid his eyes and go back to the machine. You stand by the control board and watch over the belt at the cartons rolling along. He takes his time in leaving and you feel him watching you, “my call code is R314, next time you need a mechanic, you can call for me direct.”

You nod but say nothing else. The tension has your cheeks burning and your limbs locked up. You’re embarrassed that he knows how you live and ashamed of the pity in his tone. When he finally goes, you lift your sprained ankle and grunt. It’s worse than you thought.

Sunday is the day you shop. Your grandmother’s writing is slightly smudged as you unfold the list and lean heavily on the cart. You walk down the aisles and grab produce from the shelves, cabbages, tomatoes, onion, another bunch of garlic. The last time your grandma came along for the shop was in high school, she had left in tears.

You leave the produce section after sneaking a pomegranate into the cart and debate between the oat grain bread and the sesame. You settle on white rye and push on, stopping short as another cart stalls at the end of the aisle. It’s too late to turn back as you recognize the man behind it and he turns to roll ups beside your cart.

“No overtime this week?” Steve asks.

“Got it in during the week,” you grab a tray of muffins and pretend to read the ingredients.

“Smart,” he comments, “you don’t happen to know where I can find the spice aisle, do you?”

You look up at him and put the muffins back, “aisle four, I think, maybe five.”

“Thanks,” he makes no move to leave you, “the ankle?”

“Fine,” you lie and stand straight, trying not to show how leaning on your cart is more than laziness, “you don’t have to worry about me.”

He scoffs quietly and looks down at his cart. Your eyes wander and you see the six pack of beer in it.

“You been here your whole life?” he asks as he finally lifts his head.

“Yeah,” you answer flatly.

“But… I dunno, everyone here seems to know each other, they stop and chat, and you just--”

“This town if full of assholes,” you cover your mouth and look away, “sorry, I--”

“I’ve noticed,” he laughs, “not very welcoming.”

“I’m sorry,” you try to push away and he catches the handle of your cart, his big hand touches yours.

“What I’m tryna say or ask is…” he pauses and stares but you don’t look up. You pull your hand away and flatten the list as you search for your next item, “are you busy tonight?”

“I work tomorrow,” you say quickly.

“So do I,” he says, “you’re on B-shift, right? No early morning for you.”

“I have other stuff to do,” you lie and again try to shove your cart away, he’s too strong and doesn’t even flinch.

“But do you have anything to do tonight?”

Finally you look at him and can’t help but cower just a little. Boys were only ever a fantasy and had become less than an afterthought to you. You could accept this man was good-looking, far too good-looking for a town like this, but he was also a stranger and an outsider. For all you could say of the town’s residents, you knew what to expect of them.

“No,” you confess unable to think of a fib, “but--”

“Do you like movies?” he shook his head at himself, “sorry, that’s a stupid question, isn’t it? Will you watch a movie with me? Maybe have a beer?”

Your eyes widen and you look around stupidly. It feels like a joke, like the one in high school when Jake Lawson kissed you behind the bleachers then told everyone he’d done more than. You drop the list and bend to scoop it back up as you fumble with your words and your hands.

“Why?” you ask.

His brows raise at the question and he watches you.

“Something to do,” he says coolly, “and I’m a bit tired of being alone.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea. If you ask Delilah Perrin, she’ll jump at you. She always was popular and prettier. She works here actually, you might see her on your way out--”

“I’m asking you,” he insists, “I’m not looking for an easy girl, I’m looking for good company,” he sighs, “and without all that gear, you’re just as pretty as any girl I’ve seen around here.”

Your heart pounds in your ears and you feel dizzy. “It’s gotta be a joke,” you whisper.

“Why would it be?” he asks and you’re shocked he even heard you. “it’s a movie and dinner, I cook.”

You scratch your neck and hesitate. Another look around and you notice that there are others watching. Delilah wears her green apron as she prices the out of date pastries and Macie stands not far from her with her own cart, both eyeing the strange man talking to you.

“If I say yes, can I go?” you turn back to him.

“Six?”

“Six,” you repeat with a quaver, “I--”

“I’ll pick you up,” he smiles, “you like steak?”

“I’m not picky,” you exhale as he finally lets go of your cart, “my grandma will be wonderin’ what’s taking me so long.”

“Alright,” he relents and slowly inches away from you, “I’ll be there with bells on.”

You hook around the other side of the shelf and wait until Steve disappears. You shake your head and grab a bag of English muffins as you carry on. Delilah and Macie stand together as you make to pass the clearance table and she turns her blue cart of desserts to block yours.

“Hey,” she says, “who’s that?”

“What?” you look up from the list, a shield from socializing.

“That man,” she sneers, “and why was he talking to you?”

“Why are **you** talking to me?” you huff.

“God, you’re still such a dweeb,” she rolls her eyes and Macie giggles meanly.

“Even you must know that man is hot,” Macie adds, “Christ, if any of the men around here--”

“Aren’t you married?” you ask.

“None of your business,” she snips.

“Well, then why…” your voice trails off and you stare at the blue cart in your way.

“Forget it,” Delilah pulls her desserts out of your way, “I’ll get him myself,” she primps her stiff curls and the smell of hairspray wafts around her, “Macie, you think he’s… big?”

You cringe and keep on as they forget about you. It’s the same as high school, even a decade later. You were of no concern to them until you were of some use. 

You turn into the meat and dairy section and hope that maybe Delilah will distract Steve and he might cancel on you. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened but this time it wouldn’t matter.


End file.
